


Hollow

by thattardiskey



Series: When Our Mortal Bodies Fail Us [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied mental illness, M/M, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattardiskey/pseuds/thattardiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard only smokes on the bad days, when his chest feels hollow and his feet feel heavy and Thranduil completely understands what he means by that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

Bard didn’t smoke. Except for when he did. Which, he clarified to anyone who caught him, wasn’t often. And it really wasn’t. He only smoked on the rough days. The ones where a song on the radio caught in his chest or a stab of melancholy rode in on the ocean waves.

He had rules too: He never smoked in front of his children. He never smoked in the house or in a car. He never kept a pack around or smoked more than one cigarette either. He’d always bum one off someone or give the pack away to someone after (usually Thorin, the only other person he knew that smoked menthols). Keeping a pack around was just encouragement to finish a pack and he didn’t smoke.

Except for when he did.

And this was a day that Bard smoked. The hollowness that had set in his bones before he woke turned into a dragging heaviness as the day went on, pulling him down deep into the earth. So, on the way home he stopped by the gas station, tried to fill up at a broken pump, and went inside to bought a king size Reese’s and some menthols.

As to follow his “no smoking in the house” rule, Bard did not even make it through the front door. He fished a lighter out of his truck’s ashtray, climbed the steps, sat on the porch railing and lit up. Drips from the earlier rain fell from the roof overhang in front of him. Mist began to get into his jacket and sink under his skin. He rested his head on the support beam next to him as he took the first drag and let his eyes drift shut. He exhaled.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” A voice said.

Bard cracked open his eyes and saw Thranduil. Any other day he would put out the cigarette out of politeness and shame. Any other day he wouldn't even have one in his hand.

“I don’t.”

“Well then,” Thranduil said as Bard took another drag, “I must be imagining things.”

“Must be.” Bard said, closing his eyes again. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” Thranduil walked up the steps and sat on the railing with Bard. He refrained from commenting about how the damp wood brought a chill through his jeans.

“Rough day?”

“You could say that.” Bard flicked some ashes into the slush below the porch. “Just,” he motioned meaninglessly with his free hand and made a noise of frustration, “rough. Yeah.”

And they sat. They sat for a long time. Bard finished his first cigarette and his fingers itched for another, but he refrained. They lapsed into silence.

“Do you ever wake up and feel hollow?” Bard asked wearily.

“After my wife left I felt like that every day.” Thranduil was surprised by his own honesty. “Sometimes I wake up and can barely leave bed. It is as if someone shackled my legs and sewed my lips together.”

“I get that.” Bard said, after a beat he continued, “I used to smoke. As a teenager. Then again after Lucinda died. I quit for the kids both times.”

“You’re a good father. Not every parent would have done that.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Couldn’t do that to ‘em.”

Thranduil didn’t know how to respond to that. He never did figure out how to either, since Sigrid’s old tiny Volvo came around the corner, and got Bard into a flurry of motion. He jumped off the railing and tucked the pack into his shirt pocket. A smile became plastered on his face. Tilda jumped out of the car as soon as it was in park (maybe even a bit before) and came barreling at her father. She was chatting about an art project she made and hugged him around the waist. He ruffled her hair playfully and told her it was great and that she ought to get it out of the damp. Behind her Bain tried to sneak through without any affection (being of that age) and Bard let him by with a similar hair ruffle. The two teenagers got out of the car slower, deep in conversation. Thranduil took that time to regain Bard’s attention.

“Come over for dinner tonight.” He said, “6:30. I’ll make something warm for everyone.”

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to make it clear that I'm not glamorizing smoking. I'm coming from a working class background where buying a pack of smokes or beer is how people deal with their problems and it would be unfair to not talk about that as a reality.


End file.
